


Home from the Front

by moran_or_moron



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cussing, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Swearing, Trench Warfare, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2019-09-20 03:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17014779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moran_or_moron/pseuds/moran_or_moron
Summary: LETTERS(  August, 1915.)WHEN stand-to hour is over we leave theparapet,And scamper to our dug-out to smoke acigarette;The post has brought in parcels and letters forus all,And now we'll light a candle, a little pennycandle,A tiny tallow candle, and stick it to the wall.Dark shadows cringe and cower on roof andwall and floor,And little roving breezes come rustling throughthe door;We open up the letters of friends across thefoam,And thoughts go back to London, again wedream of London --We see the lights of London, of London and ofhome.





	1. Chapter 1

Saturday 1st of July , 1916.

Some would say it was the constant shell fire, others would suggest it was the thick mud, but writing letters to the place Sebastian had come to refer to as 'home' was the most difficult thing he faced daily. When he put pen to paper, it opened up emotions inside of him that he had locked down long ago, simply to be able do his job.

Emotions… They made him appear softer, more vulnerable to the chaos of the world around him. But, at the same time, it was all that kept him going, to sit and re-read his crumpled, dirt-covered correspondence, to remind himself what he had to return to. It was hard to know what to say at times, however… He knew Jim had the same tolerance to blood, guts and god-knows-what-else as himself, but it was the very real aspects of Sebastian's u own state that he feared talking about in any depth… Christ, how had he ever ended up here?

 

***

Sunday 13th of March , 1915. 

The winter time had swiftly passed in its somber majesty; having brought forward skies of fractured greys and trees, so elegant in their bare beauty. Those cold days for calmness and reflection had run their course and a new energy filled the air . On this spring day, while hastily running through the cobbled streets, Sebastian sees the flowers that are to colour the world in the warmer days to come, waving in the breeze like a smile born of the stars - happiness in brilliant shades.

He lets his eyes follow them, noticing the buds ready to open into the light, to be as green flags in the ever-warming wind, but the moment of reflection is short lived once he remembers, with crushing realness, just how late he is for the afternoon's rugby match. All is well, though, he wouldn't be playing that day since he fully intended to meet James later, echoes of the irishman's scolding ringing in his ears from the last time he turned up smudged with sludge.

'What a curiosity that man is,’ he pondered briefly, wandering down the high street at a brisk pace. He'd met Jim a matter of days after leaving Eton, in favour of an apprenticeship with a gunsmiths’. Hah! Father was simply overjoyed to hear the family black sheep was doing nothing to heighten his status. He grinned smugly at the image of his well-to-do father hearing of his son discarding his further education for a casual job.

But, back to Jim; he'd been drinking in the Red Lion from what Sebastian remembered and had, somehow, managed to prevent Sebastian getting into a fist-fight with some poor randomer who'd done nothing but glance at the young man wrong when he was three sheets to the wind from cheap ale.

'From there, we just stuck together, keeping each other alive as best we can,' he added before spotting a familiar black-haired devil. 

"Always right on time, ay Jimmy?" he called with a roguish grin.


	2. Chapter 2

2nd of July , 1916.

Sometimes, in the dead inky-blackness of night, when the world around him was quiet, Sebastian pondered the day the news of his enlistment broke and how his father had begged him frantically, in his usual aristocratic fashion, to take an officer's position. 

‘Save you the disappointment of a rogue son?’ he had thought bitterly at the time.

He may have to stand up to his waist in mud, while freezing from the exposure to the elements, but at least in this role he was doing something! He was… helping.

Officers were usually miles and miles behind the front line. Sebastian had discovered that truth after being posted to divisional guard, exactly a week from the first time he had stepped foot on french soil. Most of the officers were ex-public school boys, whose father's wealth had paid the way to their position. They regarded the rest of the men as different creatures entirely, which was understandable for the sake of gaining respect or dishing out discipline, but there was one man that seemed to only inspire pure hatred from the young man since the day he started on guard duty.

He was an utter pig to his men; when he got out to the line after days spent in comparative luxury, when his men would be covered from head to toe mud, he'd expect them to be fully turned out to a regimental standard the next day, which was a complete impossibility.

Well later on, Sebastian and his regiment went over in an attack. He was in the second wave, right behind the officer's battalion, and, as he passed, he saw the officer, dead in that same grime-infected mud, stopping only to roll him over to check his identity. His chest had been blown straight out from all the shots coming in from the back… He'd been shot by his own men. 

***

Sunday 13th of March , 1915.

Sebastian never questioned Jim's decisions, so after a brief scolding about the fact the blond was so late, they wandered to the main center in hopes of finding a cheap lunch. Had it always been so busy this late in the afternoon? Sebastian pondered after being passed by a giddy group of men who came sprinting past as if mid-game, but he shook it off as being the summer weather; bringing out high spirits that had been buried under snow, until now. 

"It's all nonsense," an irish voice broke through his thoughts, swiftly.

"What?” he replied in a bewildered tone. 

"The war, it's all nonsense! What use is it throwing men at guns again and again when they are lacking the proper training?" 

Sebastian halted his stride with startling speed. Of course… they are recruiting men.


	3. Chapter 3

2nd of July , 1916.  
A blighty wound, in most basic terms, is a wound that gets a man sent back home to England but isn't sufficiently bad enough to maim or cripple you for life. The luckiest person to meet in the trenches is the man who has come out into the front line and, on the first day, got a nice flesh-wound that sent him back home again, it’s the finest thing that could happen to you. 

Sebastian swore that, if he could buy a blighty, he would lay his money down. They’d carry him into town and he’d be home before you know it, with a bit of a scar to show for it, his sweetheart's name tattooed below it. If only he could buy a bleeding blighty. 

He’d been paired for a short time in a dug-out with a young man who couldn't have been older than eighteen. Sebastian awoke late one morning to the boy sobbing with his hands clutched to his chest. 

“I couldn't help it,” the boy had pitifully wailed, “I just stuck my hand up-” before the younger man could finish, he was hushed. 

“Don’t you go telling the medic that, ay? You get yourself out of here while you can.” 

Sebastian had a great respect for that boy , It was then that he decided that he was probably not to the point of causing himself any harm… not yet. 

***

Sunday 13th of March , 1915.

The thought of those lively lads rushing to sign up played on Sebastian’s mind, despite the distraction of food being offered up. Like one of his father’s old records getting caught on the needle, his thoughts would suddenly skip back to that brief glimpse of brotherhood. 

“Do you suppose it’ll come to an end soon?” he asked, the words sounding muffled thanks to a mouthful of sandwich, earning him an irritated glare due to the lack of manners. 

“Maybe, if any of the generals out there are worth their salt, I’d give it until Christmas.”

“The thing is… the boys from the apprenticeship have all signed up already…they joined up a pal's battalion so they'd be able to stick together...I thought I might.”


	4. Chapter 4

Saturday 3rd of July , 1916.

Up to the front, Sebastian marched in vain with his regiment, it was nothing but a muddy swamp in the constant, hopeless rain. No tree, or bush, nor home remains, just a landscape filled with pain. Nowhere to run, or to hide. The mud surrounds them on every side and, if you look closely, it grimly shows what it contains… dead comrades’ remains. 

Every step he took left Sebastian sinking ever deeper into the mud. Even with the support of wooden planks beneath his stiff boots, if you slipped off the walk-way, you’d be up to your waist in a slush that was a folly of decomposed bodies, humans, and mules, and if you were wounded and slipped in… well… that was the end of you.

‘No heavenly angels watch this place,’ the young man thought as his eyes scanned over the men staggering beside him, despite his aching body crying for rest that was still hours away and he knew he wasn’t too far from being in a similar state, ‘this place is too near to hell, too near the grave. There is no easy way to foresee what will be the end, and death; it is our constant friend.’ 

A familiar, yet unplaceable, tune danced into Sebastian's mind, and, before he knew it, he was whistling; a usually comforting melody, now turned melancholy as Sebastian trudged along at a funereal pace. He remembered where the notes had entered his head, and instantly wished to forget...

***

Sunday 13th of March , 1915.

Home, such an odd concept, some people call a place ‘home’ while others need only certain people to be with them for it to be ‘home’. Sebastian doubted that either version granted him the luxury of having a ‘home’ in his life, as he regarded neither the place he was raised, nor the people that raised him, as feeling like home. 

He stood, staring at the grand, ornate, oak door; a door he had thrown open or slammed shut a million times in his life, but, as he pushed it open, in the dwindling light, it felt much heavier than it had that morning.

“Father?” 

The call echoed around the hallway, joined only by the soft twinkle of a music box, for a moment before it earned a reply.

“In the study!”

It was his brother’s voice. Oh, god… Severin… How was he supposed to inform him of what was going to happen? He didn’t know, just yet, but Sebastian thanked his lucky stars that Sev was both too young to join up and too youthful to lie about his age to get in. 

“Thank you,” he called back into the cavernous depths of the house, despite already being halfway to the familiar office door.

Three sharp, determined knocks on the stained wood. 

“Come in.”

The air of the study was thick with hours worth of pipe smoke, a scent the Sebastian was accustomed to after years of breathing it in.

“Well, be quick with it, boy, I haven't the time to be idle.”

A breath, a moment to steady his thoughts and straighten his posture, eyes forward.

“Apologise, father, but I have to inform you of this… I intend to sign up for service, tomorrow morning.” 

The papers, that had been firmly in his hands, spilled out, carelessly, on to the desk as he stood, for once turning a pleased gaze upon his first born son.

“I knew you had it in you to aspire for more! You’ll make a fine officer, I may even be able to pull a few strings with an old hunting friend of mine, you remember Douglas? He is a general now and you’d make a fine addition to his regiment.”

Sebastian feels himself falter, reminding himself to hold his tongue, but it’s no good this time.

“That isn’t what I want, I’ll earn my respect through work, like any other man out there, father.” 

All at once, the pride, the thing Sebastian had strived to obtain from the man in front of him, vanished.

"Sentiment doesn't get you far in war, boy, you're better than that, and you're better than them. There is no use, with your education, in you being used as cannon fodder." 

“Them?! You talk as if you have no… no humanity for the men out there, fighting for your damn country!” 

Anger burns brighter than any coals could, once it settles in Sebastian’s veins. His decision was now solidified in his mind; he was going to war.

But how would he tell Jim? 

***

Choking; that was how Sebastian would describe the silence that settled between the two friends as they sit, opposing one another, in the packed cafe; a silence so thick that it clogged his throat like tar with every stuttering breath he anxiously took, while his gaze never faltered away from Jim, waiting for the a scolding… Or congratulations… Anything!

‘This was a mistake,’ he thought, in the midst of his anguish, ‘you could have stayed here and simply worked in one of the factories, they always need more people lately,’ but those brief ‘what if’s’ faded, ‘you’ll prove them all wrong, too, show that you can actually make something of your life.’ 

Then, a stray thought crashed through, like a wave to the rocks, ‘it’s not like you are one of the blokes with someone waiting for you to come home.’ 

An irish drawl broke through the hum of Sebastian’s own roaming thoughts.

“Come back in one healthy piece, or I, myself, will kill you in the afterlife for being such a fight-prone idiot."

The blond wanted to laugh, to roughly pat Jim on the shoulder like he usually would when the stoic irishman made a joke, but this time there seemed to be something else to the warning, something the lad couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

The lunch didn’t last long after the brief acceptance of Sebastian’s decision. He had honestly expected Jim to snap at him about how it was a stupid decision, or how he’d be leaving a decently paying job but… no… he just finished his food before making some excuse to leave. 

“Work to do and people to see,” he’d said with a dismissive wave, hurrying into the fading rain of this mid-afternoon. Sebastian couldn’t help but follow him with his gaze until he was completely out of sight.


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday 4th of July , 1916.

Friendship is one of the strongest things that survives out in the trenches, it had taken Sebastian time to accept that he needed to trust the man beside him, if he had any chance of surviving. The lad beside him was a scrawny creature when compared to himself, he hardly looked older than Sebastian’s own brother, but it wasn’t for the private to question who was enlisted, he supposed. 

“Have ye got a light, mate? I’m choking for a smoke.” 

The boy stared back; an unnerving gaze to behold, thanks to the black onyx quality of his eyes, before checking every plausible pocket to retrieve something, presumably a lighter. Sebastian held out his cigarette case in exchange, only to be met with a frown.

“I don’t smoke, myself, just keep a lighter on me for unlucky sods like you.”

He studied the boy, curious as to whether he was brave or naïve. Anyone else would've torn him apart for refusing to smoke; he may as well have stuck a green carnation through his buttonhole. 

“I’d call you the unlucky one, mate, these are the only bloody things keeping me sane some days, when there is nothing to do but be on stand-to… Breaks the day up, instead of just waiting.” 

Sebastian watches the lighter flash before his eyes. He had vivid memories of his father smoking his pipe in a similar way, though the smoke was much thicker. But a pipe was simply impractical in the trenches, as tobacco could never be kept dry like a tin of cigarettes could. Not to mention, it required constant re-lighting, something that could be the death of you during the night when any light gave the sniper a fine view of where you were.

“You are sure ‘bout not wanting one?” it was more of a statement posed as a question, as the blond turned his head abruptly back to the young man, face illuminated by the glowing end of the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

The boy gave him a wan smile and huffed a laugh, shaking his head in acknowledgement of Sebastian's underlying meaning, instead turning his attention to a hobbling rat to avoid any further questions. 

***

Monday 14th of March ,1915.

The night had brought Sebastian no rest or relaxation, as his father refused to speak a word to him the entire evening, and Sev… Well, he heard the argument loud and clear from the kitchen, thinking Sebastian had intended to leave without telling him meant that even his little brother didn’t speak a word to him. Maybe that was for the best, ease the parting? The idea that it was, somehow, beneficial comforted the blond, as he packed what little he thought necessary.

He’d be lying if he said that he hadn't thought of giving Jim a last farewell, but yesterday’s events had spoken eloquently about what Jim thought of the whole thing. He wondered, while standing on the house steps, briefly and with heart-wrenching sorrow, what his mother would think of the whole proceedings, but that was no way to think. 

‘The dead could care less,’ he hissed to himself, setting off towards the town center, a new life awaiting just a few signatures away. 

***

Saturday 4th of July , 1916.

Quiet; there was nothing as unnerving, yet comforting, as the silence that could settled over the front line. It put everyone on edge for the coming storm of steel and smoke, but, at least for now, there was no imminent danger. Still, nobody unclenched their jaws, ready to jump to action in a moment. Even if they had no previous experience, necessity had made them into skilled soldiers, instead of scared boys and arrogant men who were only here for the glory. 

“Where are you from, then?” Sebastian finally spoke up in a voice that felt as rough as stone, unaware that he had been staring at the featureless earth wall of the dug-out for close to an hour.

The boy looked terrified for a moment, like He’d been away and was plunged back into war all of a sudden, then settled again and slid down the wall to join Sebastian in the mud. They faced each other, though the trench was uncomfortably narrow. 

“Scotland, originally, moved to Yorkshire to be closer to my gran. Needed someone to look after her,” he sniffed, trying to seem unaffected by the memory, but the way he looked off into the distance gave him away. 

“I take it that the fact you are stuck ‘ere means she has…” he doesn't quite know how to word it, it was odd that he saw death every day in all its stages… But a sudden death from shell fire was different to dying peacefully at home from old age, so different that, like most things out in the battlefield, death was all that linked them.

“Yeah, peaceful, though.” There was a stretch of silence, then a small, warm smile crept onto his face, “I decided to stay in the end, met someone I didn't want to leave, not even for Scotland, which should give you some idea.”

A broad grin etched itself on to the blond’s normally stern visage, replacing his stoic facade, “Got yourself some poor heartbroken lass waiting for her soldier boy?”

“Something like that,” he grinned, like he was in on a secret, for once actually making eye contact with Sebastian, “He’s not too keen on me being out here. What about yours?”

“My what?” the private, seemingly startled by the question, shot up, sitting straight compared to his slumped, relaxed posture from before, “I only have an arrogant younger brother waiting for me to get back… I think I'm going deaf from the shell fire because it sounded like you were suggesting I’m-” his voice lowered considerably, “temperamental.” 

The boy blinked in sarcastic astonishment, “Temperamental? May as well call me a shirt lifter, while you're at it. I saw your tin, I'm not that foolish.” 

Sebastian stared back, blankly. 

“As in,” the boy continued, “J-I-M. Those aren't the initials of your girl, it's the name of your partner, I assume.”

Sebastian almost chokes with the force of his barking laughter, “Christ! Jim?! He is just an old friend from back home!”

The boy- Sebastian still hadn't asked his name- joined in his raucous laughter, but for reasons of his own, “It's hardly the most friendly gift he could've gotten you, it must have cost a fortune, not like you throw that kind of money away on just some friend. The only reason I have this lighter is because he bought it for me, I don't smoke because he doesn't like the smell,” he chuckled at the contradiction, “It’s all about the detail and the thought, the things only close companionship allows you to see in one another,” he flicked on the lighter and watched the flame as it shuddered in the wind, “especially when things get dark.”

“ As… heartwarming… as that is to hear, Jim and I are as far from one another as it can get. He doesn’t even know I am out here, at least not exactly, he knows I planned to enlisted but… that was the last time we spoke.” 

“Oh, that poor man,” he whispered, looking guilty enough for the both of them. 

“He’ll be alright, he has more strength in his mind alone than I have in my entire body.” 

“Definitely just a friend, it sounds.” and there was that cheeky smile again, “Listen to us; soldiers, reduced to poetics at the hands of our absent sweethearts.”

“They say the finest poetry comes from two places; the heart at its most endearing, and a mind, not too far from breaking. War creates both in perfect duality.” 

The look in his eye told Sebastian that he agreed, maybe too much, which he confirmed when opened his mouth to try and slather his emotions in sarcasm, “And I’m the temperamental one?”

Sebastian kicked him in the shin, a shark-like grin on his face as he watched his new found companion go tumbling sideways into the thicker mud.


	6. Chapter 6

Monday 14th of March ,1915. 

The crowds flow as one, swiftly down the wide-set city street, the same way the Thames always meets its banks. The mood of the people swirled in unseen currents beneath the dark surface of their faces. In a thousand strong men there wasn't a single expression of doubt but instead a strange crackle of excitement accented every rising voice in the depths of the group, like the first signs of lightning in the swirling clouds of a midsummer storm.

Sebastian wishes he, too, could fall victim to the war-fever, that he could, but for a moment, imagine the glory of coming home a hero, but what point was there to coming home at all when those you love either did not wish to have you or, in Severin’s case, will have grown to forget you by the time you return?

Sunday 5th of July , 1916.

Trenches, trenches, trenches- as far as the eye could see . 

If Sebastian had been born a badger, or a rabbit, he’d be laughing, if he was tadpole he’d have a swim, but he’s a soldier for his country, wheezing and coughing. Clarty, cold and hungry with the water gushing into the mud-slicked hell-hole they called a shelter.

He bent over as sharply as if he'd been punched in the stomach, the fit tore the man apart with each breath that was ripped away from his aching lungs. By slow, torturous degrees, the coughs eased in intensity and then slowly, slowly passed until he could find his composure once more. 

“They’ll send you home for that,” Sebastian's comrade assessed with a frown. 

“Like hell, they’ll want all the men they can get if there is going to be an attack.” He grunted briefly, even speaking felt like rusted nails dragging against the raw edges of his throat.

“Look, the least you could do is go down to the medic and see if it’s contagious instead of risking the whole dug-out for the sake of your pride.” another man spat in an accent Sebastian couldn’t quite place within his fever-addled mind.

“Fine I-” once the lanky blond managed to scramble to his feet, he hardly remained there for more than a second before his legs crumbled beneath him, body hitting the churned dirt like a puppet cut loose of it’s supporting strings. 

Sunday 20th of July , 1916.

The pair traipsed through the typical pandemonium offered by the village High Street in anxious silence. Though they fell into step beside each other with as much ease as any other day, there was a distinct distance lingering between them; nothing for the mortal eye to see, this was an isolation that could only be felt by one's spirit. 

Together they wandered past the green grocer with his window full of rosey red apples, the butcher with his display stocked with bloody lumps of fresh cut meat, and the tiny weathered-brick post office, standing defiantly against the summer heat like it had for so many years. Eternity passed by before they emerged at the other side of the village, appearing on the narrow country road where the only sentient souls were the sparrows artfully cutting through the clouds above.

“It feels like this weather will never end!” The usually stoic irish voice whined, a hint of frustration marking each word.

“Well, you will decide to wear only long sleeved shirts, Jim, no wonder you are boiling!” 

No familiar acerbic retort came in return to the young soldier’s observation, but simply a dismissive wave of a pale, bony hand as it’s owner continued to plod along the compact dirt road without another word or apparent acknowledgement of his blond companion. His deep, earthy eyes were somehow flawed; bright as stars but still too dull, like the fire inside them is far off, leaving Sebastian cold. 

“Jim?” 

Nothing.

“James?” Still he ambled further away while Sebastian remained rooted to the spot.

“I love you.” He managed, the exclamation twisting into a choking gasp as air became a luxury of the past and his gaze was flooded with a fierce, stinging light.

Field hospitals are places where the chance of getting a specific treatment is doled out like lottery tickets; too few doctors faced with too many men in varying states of injury inevitably leads to a shortage in everything from beds to bandages.

After waking, Sebastian came to the understand that he had been tucked away in one of the blood-stained cots to wait out or, more likely, die from his fever, but little else was known about the week-long gap in his memory, or how he had come to be so far from his post up at the front.

Neighbouring Sebastian’s section was a bed whose occupant was a seventeen-year old, shaggy-haired boy; his right arm had been cleanly ripped away at the shoulder by shrapnel, the boy himself never uttered a syllable for the whole time that the young Moran was present or awake, but his unsteady, glassy stare said more than enough. Sebastian didn’t blame him, words were often drowned out by a symphony of pained cries fighting to be heard by anyone who cared, but an agonised gape was a private admission of terror. 

Sebastian would never see the sad-eyed boy again after those brief days in the musky air of the medic tent. He held the foolish hope that the boy went on to live a good life… but reality was always around the next bend to prove to him that such dreams couldn’t survive the decaying landscape of a failing war.


	7. Chapter 7

( date unknown.) 

 

The soldier was laden like a pack mule.

Besides his knapsack and his water bottle, he carried on his back an iron bar, wound around which was a grotesque mass of barbed wire that must have weighed a hundred pounds on it’s own. In his trembling hands he carried his rifle like a shattered limb, glacial to the touch and utterly useless to him in it’s mud-clogged state. Just to rub salt in raw depths of the wound, he was saturated; absolutely soaked through and through, every stitch of cloth and every inch of leather as sodden as if it had been deliberately immersed in water, so that it all weighed three times what a uniform, coat and boots ought to have weighed. Of course, every man in Flanders was as wet as that, but not every man carried a rattling reel of wire on his back and so not all of them staggered as this man did, or made such agonisingly  slow time. He found himself as a straggler, the sickly puppy that the hawks have had their eyes on for a while. 

 

Sebastian was only a few steps behind him when a whining noise fractured the air, the sorry soul standing before him went tumbling into the water mud, dead before he hit the ground. But no one flinched. Everyone is anticipating a body full of bullets and a mouth full of dirt, so there's little surprise when someone is finally torn to shreds. Even so, basic instincts prompted them to duck down further as they creeped ever closer to the front line; approaching the jumping point for the offensive and likely the last sunrise that many of them would see.

 

Sebastian held no fear in his heart any longer; he had faced death in all it’s drawn-out stages by now, there couldn't possibly be anything left to shake his nerves but death itself creeping over the trench wall to strike him down personally.

 

“You made it out of the medic tent alive, then?” 

 

The voice was familiar, though it took the lanky blond a good moment to drag the memory it was encased in to the surface.

 

“You managed to survive at all, Blair?” 

 

His tone was harsher than intended, he knew that, but even the weak smile he offered couldn’t soften its impact.

 

“I'm just stubborn, like you're just tired.”

 

“Tired? Whatever I am surpassed tired months ago!”

 

“Fine, you're- well, you've had a fever, your body is protesting at even breathing!”

 

Sebastian, or some long dead version of him, would have laughed at the oddly cheerful comment, but he simply fell into the silent pattern of footsteps along the slush-coated trench floor.

 

The steady trudging suddenly halted, line after line of men stood sinking in the mud, arranged like weathered toy soldiers long forgotten by their owner- How tragically true that was, but instead of a child it was some out-of-touch general that demanded for them to be there… Might as well be a child, Sebastian thought bitterly as he saw the bucket of belongings being passed around. ‘You’ll get it back, if you get back.’ echoed in his mind as he dug a dented and scratched tin from his pocket, watching Jim’s gift settle atop a mountain of family photos and letters from girlfriends where it belonged. But his fingers hesitated as they settled on a worn envelope, eventually returning it to the safety of his pocket instead.

 

The line swiftly ordered itself into rows with Sebastian in the first unfortunate lot, set to clamber the creaking ladders into the chaos of no-man’s-land.

 

A single breath, 

 

A stuttering heartbeat, 

 

Then the whistle blew. 

 

Dirt ruptured and sprayed from under the soldier’s feet as they surged forward like one great khaki wave, rushing ahead, stumbling like newborn foals finding their feet... until those innocent creatures were shredded to pieces by sheets of bullets arching through the air, as if they aspired to block out all evidence of a sun hanging in the sky, an eternal melancholy witness to the proceedings.

 

Sebastian hardly had a moment before he was running, dashing like a hare in the sights of a pack of starved wolves.

 

Every turn welcomed the man's eyes with chaos and terror, a billowing haze of frantic attempts to survive the onslaught, until Sebastian found himself cramped into the uneasy asylum of a shell crater.

 

“What the HELL! The guns were supposed to have cleared out the frontline days ago!” The blond cursed, mostly to himself, above the roar of warfare going on around him.

 

It was only within that brief fracture in the visage of the soldier, of a trained machine of endless sacrifice, that Sebastian noticed he was no longer alone in the sanctity of the jagged, muddy hole.

 

“Blair?”

 

"Cockroach reporting for duty, sir."

 

“Well that'd explain why you're stuck in here with me- is… is that your own blood or-?”

 

The boy spared half a glance to himself before he looked ready to convulse, "Not entirely sure and I don't entirely care at the moment."

 

“Can you at least stand? No doubt they'll start taking potshots at us if they realise that we aren't moving.”

 

"Well, I don't have a choice, then." he said, doing his best to look alive as he arose, shaking slightly.  

 

“No way are you getting over there...” Sebastian shuffled cautiously, weary of keeping his head down, to sit beside the shorter male, “Christ… you'll be lucky if that hit hasn't shattered the bone-” he snarled under his breath, rummaging in his pockets for a field dressing, “Best I can do is try to limit the bleeding… no idea how long it'll take for any sort of medic to get out here.” 

 

"As long as we go now, I can make it, no time for all of that." he urged, his voice unusually hoarse. 

 

“Oi, listen here, you go out there? You'll be shot in seconds. You are staying here-...and so am I, I won't abandon you pal.”

 

"Jesus-" he staggered as he attempted to scramble up the slope, but he kept going. He'd seen the blood- one shade too dark. And he knew there were no medics for miles, the only thing he could hope for was a quick ending, to not injure Sebastian's chance of getting home in one piece. 

 

Seconds away from the line of fire, a hand caught him and hauled him backward. 

 

Sebastian spent those sanity shredding hours of wavering daylight making sure he did all he could to make his companion comfortable- just in case, he told himself time and time again.


	8. Chapter 8

Sebastian lay eerily still , eyes fixed to the sky, he pondered how often he'd seen the dawn and taken it for granted, the way in which he had carelessly ignored the beauty of getting to witness the blackness become a vista, the world that had been loved, home... yet this dawn, as the blackish-greens take on their vibrant and verdant hues, he let it soak in a little deeper. As the sky changes from charcoal to soft dove grey he already cherishes the blue that is to come. For the dawn is the invitation to the day, proof of survival in the face of impossible, improbable odds.

 

A cautious flickering glance assures him that though motionless, his companion still has a steady pattern of breathing, the realisation only serves to send a wave of relief crashing through the blond's aching bones.

 

The soil was damp. With what liquid exactly? Sebastian refused to consider in depth , the worms had surfaced to breathe and the crows fluttered over the empty landscape with their inky wings cutting through the endless sky, each of them eager to make the best of the sudden feast presented before them.

 

All was sickeningly still since the shooting had shuddered to a halt. His friends were all dead or injured, their bloodied bodies left motionless where they'd fallen.The soldier looked up into the eyes of a seemingly solitary black crow, perched on a charred tree-stump. Had he spied a glimpse of pity in those inhuman eyes? the emotionless avian shadow stared down as if regarding if it  was safe to start pecking out the blonde's blue eyes before taking flight to find a quicker snack that was beyond the stage of fighting back.

 

The more Sebastian listened, the more he wished that he could return to his personal hellish nightmares in the realm of rest than the brutality of an inescapable living bane.

 

The echo of a voice was unexpected. It was low, with an agreeable trace of huskiness and with a hint of more power than the frail body that appeared over the edge of the shell hole would have suggested - not an educated voice, but one on which education had imposed a discipline but hadn't quite obliterated the provincial, probably north eastern, accent of the man's childhood.

 

"Any alive in there?"

 

" Yes! " he exclaimed, scrambling swiftly to his feet .

 

That was his first mistake, he didn't even try to appear as anxious as he had been through the harrowing night , a habit of hidden emotions formed within the halls of his childhood home, but instead looked...well, far too alive compared to the blood-soaked compatriot that had shared the craters shelter with him.

 

" What are you doing out here, lad?" was the next words uttered by the would-be-saviour-turned-accuser.

 

Sebastian stalled, the man's tone sent ice water rocketing through every one of his struggling nerves.

 

" I couldn't leave him sir…-" his arm motioned back towards the huddled figure that he'd previously been seated beside, " they would have…".

 

No words came to pass , the gaze of the man said more than enough. By choosing guardianship over the priority of obtaining an objective, he had committed cowardice...The man didn't see the young private as a hero for standing by his friend in a time of need , he saw Sebastian as a milksop who'd left fear take over.

 

The next few hours stretched out until Sebastian felt as if time has come to a grinding stop. Of course his bullet-riddled friend was taken by the stretcher bearers as soon as they were able , many of the poor sods stuck with seeing the worst aftereffects of the war were currently conscientious objectors who'd been given the duty instead of being forced to fight. Sebastian envied them deeply for that.

 

It is the late evening by the time Sebastian is finally herded into what he can only assume is a now unused barn turned confinement area by two men who couldn't be a year older than himself.

 

He could feel his  heart beat… every single pound ringing throughout his chest. No longer chiming in the ears as it had during the battle , now that was occupied by the steady thunder of a distant bombardment thus drowning it out. The soldier couldn't lay still . Surely rest would be a welcome distraction but no such luck was granted to the blond. 

 

A great pressure; every beat. He couldn't hear it, but could feel it. It remains regardless of whether Sebastian is laying or standing, even as he paces the straw covered floorboards.

 

That dark beating remained, alone in the makeshift cell. Every beat a turbulent push from within as if a giant placed within the chest tried valiantly to escape; as a great wave against a minuscule dike. The pressure urges the tears, this horrible pressure. 

 

\---

Through the broken wooden panels that line the barn wall comes the brightness of the early morning shine, that boldness that briefly lifts the spirit. The chorus of the birds drifts in as steady waves, only their melody is dancing. In a moment the tune can fly so high and resettle, an auditory version of how they play upon wing. Sebastian , still clumsily drowsy , moved toward it, feeling the light reach his skin and letting his scrunched up eyes adjust to its brilliance. A hand reaches to lean on the chipped frame, watching the subtle pattern engraved within the grain , those rings that once showed the course of living relegated to decoration.

 

The chaplain is at the entrance to the barn , his lanky shadow slithering across the floor but not yet eclipsing the glow of gold that dusts Sebastian's dirt smudged cheeks.

 

" So that's the decision they reached, is it father? ...I know why you are here ..and neither hate you or pity you because of it."

 

Sebastian wasn't religious, though there were many tales within his family that he had been named after some saint .. a fact that he couldn't refuse or accept as the one person who could provide the answer was long since dead.

 

" You have no reason to stay , mister , I've made peace with what I've done. I refuse to apologise or god forbid make excuses for wanting to preserve life for once instead of taking it. I know I am dying a death of my own making , and I welcome it." 

 

The man seems to consider Sebastian's trembling figure for a long while, he turns to the guard with a curt nod , and Sebastian is once again alone.

 

\---

The letter has so many crease lines, all of them fluffy to the outside from so many times being folded and unfolded. Likewise, the paper is soft to the touch, the blue ink has run but only slightly. Sebastian's eyes caress the strokes of the pen made so many days ago, seeing the personality behind the strong lines and heavy punctuation marks. He supposed now was as good a time as any for it to be sent off.

 

The envelope is slipped into his breast pocket before the door to his enclosure was opened for the final time. 

 

Six sets of boots scuff the ground as the young man is led out ,eyes  look up at a defiant sky, to see no fairness there, no sense of responsibility. Some days are dark, angry, bitter spitting rain, hail, fire and brimstone. Others calm, serene with light fluffy clouds as if there wasn't a care in the world. How ironic that a day as this would be blessed with the latter.

 

Swiftly he is bound to a lone wooden beam standing within the cobblestone yard with harsh rope restraining his arms behind him as if he were standing at attention even now. In front of him lay a row of men , men he had never spoken to nor met personally but men who would be tasked with executing a sentence that generals miles from the carnage of the front had made. A strip of cloth blotted out the tranquillity of the sky , trapped within the dark once again. Some poor medic is tasked with  locating his heart and pinning a circular white cloth target over it. This ensures that all parties aim for the right spot , a moment of consideration for a coward , ' make it quick ' was the goal after all despite the suffering that all involved had already witnessed.

Sebastian is no longer in the court yard facing the guns , in his mind his is back playing rugby on the village green with his baby brother or teasing Jim about some obscure fact that only the Irishman could possibly bring up in casual conversation.

Breath

 

Beat

 

Breath

 

Beat 

 

Breath-...


End file.
